4a: Conspiracy
by windwraith
Summary: Louis and Phileppe try to end the longstanding conflict between two ledgends then Secound Fronde hits unmasking a new enemy. Are the royal twins up to the challange? Part 4A of the YB 'Unleashed Saga'
1. Beginning

No copyright infringement intended this work is simply done out earnest respect for those who have gone before. I sit perched on the back of giants and together we gaze at the stars…

Special thanks go out to Jean-Tre for all her hard work beta.

I appreciate all you have done to improve this work and deepen my understanding of the craft of writing. -Viviat-

I hope you all enjoy what I have wrought; reviews are, as ever appreciated.  
--Vigilanti (SEP:07)

Reconcile Part One: The Conspiracy

-Prologue-

Pale golden light crept tentatively between the thick curtains enveloping the royal bed. The young king drew the sheets about his slim shoulders. Louis could not hazard to guess how many times he gazed longingly at his reflection in the mirror and longed for a friend, an equal with whom to share all things. Destiny had seen fit to grant his request. The young king found it hard to suppress his grin, now he would never be alone again… he had a twin.

Louis had eagerly entreated his mother to allow Philippe to share his royal apartments. They had always seemed too big, not to mention lonely, to house one small boy. Now, bedtime was accompanied by good-natured wrestling matches, tug-of-war and conversation long into the night. The arrangement had some small drawbacks, of course. Louis never imagined his new-found twin would prove such a restless bedfellow. Even the smallest noise of servants bustling about in the chamber beyond the curtains of the bed disturbed Philippe to no end. As a result, both boys often met the waiting breakfast tray with sleepy-eyed reluctance.

Not today though. Louis lay still, watching his brother sleep; the quilt of feather down coiled about Philippe's lithe form lay bunched up between his legs. Sweat matted his hair and bedclothes. For-all-the-world it appeared the youth had exhausted himself wrestling one of the great serpents of legend. Louis could easily imagine that in true fairytale form Philippe vanquished the nightmare beast just as dawn was approaching, permitting the haunted prince to finally find peace. Louis could not begrudge his twin of course; their uncanny connection gave him a window of clarity into the terrors which plagued his brother's dreams.

The same hand of fate that destined Louis for the crown plunged his brother into deepest obscurity; a prisoner condemned by virtue of birth. Richelieu, and perhaps even Louis XIII, believed the very knowledge of his existence threatened the security of the crown. Luckily, brother Lew did not see his twin in quite the same light as his royal predecessor had. Louis demanded his brother Philippe be recognized as royal prince, newly styled, duc d Anjou. But titles meant little to the boy raised in solitude beneath a mask of leather and steel. Philippe had been subjected to neglect, deprivation and worse abuse. His nightmares attested to the fact of it all. If only the haunted prince could find peace in waking that he could not find in sleep. Louis bit his lip and sighed.

Even that slight sound caused Philippe to stir, "Morning already?" he asked, stretching cat-like. Louis nodded wordlessly and reached through the thick bed curtains to procure the silver breakfast tray. Philippe took a croissant from the tray and politely asked, "So who is king today?"

"You are, brother dear." Louis smiled back. He took a muffin for himself and settled back against the pillows.

"Unwanted company" (1)

Philippe sat in the window seat of the drawing room basking in the sunlight that shone through the glazing. Lost in thought, he absently coiled a strand of golden hair around his finger. It was so pleasant to doze in the warm rays. He closed his eyes and rested the leather-bound volume of Le Chanson de Roland on his chest, crossing his arms over it. The book was out of place when he wore the crown in his brother's stead. The real king NEVER read for pleasure (never read much at all really). But the book was a gift from Emris de Ruse—once, the musketeer Aramis—and Philippe sorely missed the elder gentleman who had been his last guardian. The palace was nice, of course, but it would be so much nicer if Emris were here. Sadly, that wasn't about to happen and the reason was Charles deBatz Castlemore d'Artagnan. Philippe sighed. It was sad that the two who had been legendary companions couldn't even stand to be in the same room with one another. He couldn't help but wonderer what caused such a monumental falling out…

"Majesty," a quiet voice hissed close by his ear, startling the kingly prince out of his reverie.

Philippe bit back a curse…Louis II de Bourbon, had been in the military since his teens and knew entirely too much about stealth. The man prided himself on looking every inch a soldier. Philippe thought the young general's high protruding nose and deeply set eyes made him look more like a hungry bird of prey, and that made Philippe feel a bit like a mouse caught in his piercing gaze. "So what does my Chief of the House require?" Philippe asked, masking his surprise from the proud 28-year-old kneeling at his elbow.

The general smiled coldly. "Only a moment of your time, cousin." It was no secret that Louis, the king, was quite taken with 'The Great Condé.' He was a magnificent general, it was true… largely responsible for the victories at Rocrio, Lenze, and a dozen other actions, not to mention ending the recent uprising in the capital. Politically, too, this was a man to be reckoned with. His father, Henry II of Bourbon, had died in the chaos of battle just prior to the Fronde. Much to the queen-mother's chagrin, the young general had been elevated from duc d'Enghien to Prince de Condé, giving him controlling influence of Berry, Burgundy, Lorraine, as well as several less important territories. The man's air of gallantry and notable success in love and war made him a hero of many in the court. Philippe was not one of them. To his eyes, the man in question presumed too much on the royal favor.

Such things did not impress Philippe. The captive prince had learned to rely heavily on his instincts during his years in captivity, and they practically screamed that this man was a threat. He carefully slipped off the windowsill and stood—a pretext to put distance between himself and the young general.

La Condé rose to his feet (without being given leave to do so) and sauntered uncomfortably close to the young royal once more. General la Condé sneered down at him. His raptor-like smile held no warmth.

Philippe felt the urge to shout, 'Don't touch me!' and shove the general away. But he bit his tongue, knowing such behavior would hardly be appropriate for the king he pretended to be. Still, Philippe wished he were taller and more physically imposing. But being half-grown, he had to make do with what God and nature had given the royal pair. He folded his arms and inclined his head in a 'lofty fashion.' "Your men are well provisioned, I trust?" he asked casually.

"My men are adequately provisioned, great king, though I would like having them housed somewhat closer to the palace…in the musketeer's barracks perhaps?" The general's steely gaze was relentless and made a supposed request seem more like an order.

Philippe bristled again and cleared his throat. "I fear we can not accommodate you," he explained, carefully mimicking his brother's tone of 'regal regret,' but paced the room to mask his agitation. "The blockade and riots associated with your enthusiastic police action left many of my people wounded and hungry with no place to turn for aid. Captain Duval and his men are distributing supplies to the peasants and have offered one wing of the garrison to act as a hospital. I suspect your men would not relish sharing space with peasants. Regardless, the garrison simply can not accommodate any more 'guests,'" Philippe forced himself to look sympathetic to the general's request, but stories of women and children cut down in the street did not sit well with the sheltered prince.

The Great Condé' raised an eyebrow… he must have sensed 'the king' was not fully accepting of the collateral damage his decisiveness entailed. "Enthusiastic action, cousin?" the general echoed. His tone implied, 'I saved your kingdom…you owe ME your crown.'

Philippe blanched at the man's audacity toward one he took to be 'his king.' Unfortunately, if Louis were in his place this day, Philippe knew his royal brother would turn a blind eye to the veiled threat. Philippe decided to change tactics and use one of the most valuable tools in Louis's personal arsenal—flattery. He laced his fingers together and graced the man with a winning smile. "Well, what are you known for if not your eagerness for battle, your quick decision in action, and the stern will with which you send your men to battle? Mother has said as much…many times in fact," the young royal gushed, striving for the same balance of pride and hero-worship his brother held for the man. Still, the words made his gut twist within him.

"Yes… indeed." Condé laughed and preened. "Surely, you should have been at Rocroi in '43. I set two lines of infantry in the center to keep the Spanish busy. The important players were my squadrons of cavalry on each wing and a thin line of artillery at the front." The general gestured expansively describing the battle with his hands. "We routed the Spanish cavalry opposite us and then encircled the entire Spanish rear, almost 3000 professional infantry, stuck in my trap. Old General de Melo and his dogs hadn't a chance. We mowed them down with artillery fire. It was Glorious!"

The king would have been mesmerized by the account. Philippe was glad the man had finally taken a step or two away from him. He tried to be as intent as his royal twin, but having studied the regimental records, Philippe thought only of the bloodshed. The records described the general as "dying with impatience" to fight, The young duke led his army so close to the Spanish troops that it was impossible to avoid a battle. It was amazing how easily Condé glossed over the fact that two-thirds of the French infantry had fallen that day. Except for the greater caution of Marshal Turenne, the victory would have been lost. De Condé's horsemen were as noted for heavy-handed dominion over the people they were charged to protect as they were for their ruthlessness in battle. Friend and foe alike named them "Pillagers."

"It must have been horrible for you in Catalogne;the conditions your finesoldiers were subjected to in the lowlands…abominable." Philippe managed to sound genuinely regretful, despite the fact that he believed this had likely been the best place for Condé's Army. Out on the borders, they were an admirable asset. But he did not wish to trust these men further with the citizens of Paris.

There was no end to the man's ambition. The general intimated that his friends and 'hangers on' should be offered positions in government, based on his recommendation alone, regardless of their personal quality or skill. And the queen was often hard-pressed to evade his requests. There was no telling what else man saw as his due.

"Oh, my men made themselves at home in the temple of Santa Maria de Gardeny," Prince de Condé sneered, recalling that looting the holy refuge had been quite rewarding. "There was nary a complaint!" It seemed the general was unwilling to admit, even to himself, that he had taken so much of the spoils for himself that his men had been on the verge of open revolt before he was finally forced to raise the siege of Lleida.

"A temple… What a wonderful idea!" In the secret places of his mind Philip was appalled that French forces had been responsible for desecrating a holy place, but the inspiration sparking his eyes was genuine enough. Philippe pressed his palm over his heart and did his best to look disarming. "That solves your little problem quite easily. The Cardinal's Guard has ample space. Your men should find accommodations with them more than adequate. I am sure Mazarin would not mind. Hospitality is one of the cardinal virtues, isn't it?" Philippe grinned; his nose crinkled the same way as his brother's did when he felt he was being particularly witty.

Silently, Philippe thanked Emris for teaching him the difference between irony and true humor. What Louis did when he wore the crown was not for him to judge… but today Philippe was king and His Musketeers would not have Condé's men in close quarters, vying for supremacy. The Cardinal's men, however, were another matter altogether. A little extra chaos would only improve matters. Like wild dogs after a bone, they deserved one another.

The look of surprise and chagrin on the general's face was mildly gratifying. It appeared that, despite his inflated sense of self importance, the general knew better than to argue with a royal declaration. Still, Philippe did not wish to provoke the powerful man further and thought it best to cut this unwanted interview short. "I'm sure you can arrange a meeting with the captain this afternoon. And speaking of which, I believe I have an important appointment to keep as well, if you'll excuse me." Philippe nodded to the general, grabbed his book from the window seat and hastily took his leave.


	2. Touchstone

+O+

"Touchstone" (2)

Philippe burst into the mirror room; the blond ringlets of his kingly wig bounced as he spun on his heel to pull the door closed with a solid thump.

"You're vexed, brother," Louis sighed from his position, curled up on the settee, cleaning his nails. "Something I should know about?" he asked, running fingers through the dark wavelets that concealed his lighter locks.

"I've told the Prince le Condé to house his men with the Cardinal's. He wasn't happy about it. I'm sure he had it in mind to cause trouble for our men."

"He shouldn't complain." Louis shrugged. "His men will have plenty of room. When ill health sent Mazarin to his country house it seems he took half his guard with him. I've never seen their barracks so empty… it's a bit unnerving.

"That is somewhat peculiar, isn't it?" Philippe frowned. "Do you think we should send someone to find out what Uncle Mazzie's guards are up to? Aramis says one of the fundamental aspects of kingship is to know what people are doing in our names. We have people we trust in charge of intelligence, don't we?"

"De Batz's has people to do that sort of thing, I think. You'd have to ask him about it." Louis yawned, nonchalantly holding his arm out to his brother.

"I'm not going to kiss your hand while I'M king," Philippe snorted.

"Nooo!" Louis frowned and waved a lacy handkerchief at him. "It's a new scent—Jasmine. A gift from young Philippe de Lorraine-Armagnac. It's supposed to be soothing, and you're a bundle of nerves."

Philippe took the proffered accessory, sniffed cautiously, and then wrinkled his nose. "I like the rosewater better. And I get more comfort from this," he admitted, slipping the leather bound book from his pocket.

"Suit yourself, so long as you're not caught at it. Mazarin never liked me reading—not that I mind, reading bores me. Still, he tells me such trivialities are beneath a king. 'Do not read history, live it. We must at all times be aware to present an image consistent with our i _gloire;_" /i Louie tried to mimic the Cardinal's brusque manner and affected the use of the royal 'WE' as he tucked the fragrant cloth nonchalantly back into his sleeve.

"I shan't be caught—look." Philippe beamed. Opening the volume and clearly holding it up-side down he read, "The sun goes down, dark follows on the day. The Emperor sleeps, the mighty Charlemagne. He dreamed he stood at Cesar's lofty gate, holding in hand his ashen lance full great."

i "_Sacré bleau_," /i Louis whispered in quiet awe. "So when Uncle Mazzie has paperwork wrong-ways round on his desk you can read it?"

i "_Oui_, /i and he'll still believe us barely illiterate." Philippe nodded. With a sly smile he added, "So will his niece, Miss Mancini… I did enjoy having her read to me yesterday." He smiled, looking long into the gold-framed mirror positioned over the settee. Absently, he wound a blond ringlet around his finger and watched it spring back into place among the others on his 'Louis wig.'

"You're vain." Louie laughed.

"Am not… not really." Philippe frowned. Having spent most of his life masked and locked away, he had never even seen his reflection until coming to stay with Emris. At the Abbey there had been one small silver mirror. This one was huge and elegant; his image shone bright and clear. "They wouldn't call it 'a looking glass' if people weren't meant to look into it," he reasoned, caressing the gold frame before examining his reflection again.

Louie rose and stood at the glass beside his twin. Careful use of make-up, clothing and wigs made them seem as different as night and day. But side-by-side the reflection did not lie. "Looking has become a habit with you, you know," Louis whispered softly. "You ought to try to fight it when you're king. It is as characteristically Philippe as your resistance to being touched. I know you're not really vain. I suspect you just need to remind yourself you're really here."

Philippe was unable to deny either claim. His life had changed so dramatically. First, he had been a faceless prisoner. His treatment ranged from harsh lessons, punctuated by regular beatings, to long stretches of blatant neglect. Then, suddenly, he found himself free of his cage and whisked off to the Abbey. He'd never dreamed life could be so different, full of light color and companionship. Emris de Ruse had been free with his fatherly affection and would have willingly embraced Philippe, just as he did his own daughter Kate. But the oft-tortured boy could not accept such things then, and now, things changed again. He'd lost his chance. Philippe sighed, and scuffed one silk-slippered foot on the tiles. "I miss Emris."

"So call him to the capital. You are king; you can do things like that." Louie pointed out.

"What of de Batz? He's sure to object…and even I can see when he's not happy, then neither is mother... I don't want her upset with me," Philippe reasoned.

"I've heard the stories, in the old days, musketeers Aramis and d'Artagnan were inseparable. I don't know what changed, but maybe we could find a way to trick them into being friends again—lock them in a closet or shackle them together somehow," Louis suggested.

"Emris is too smart for that, and he can pick locks. Even showed me how, but I'm not that good yet," Philippe explained.

"Maybe Junior and his friends at the garrison can help us think of some way to get them together," Louis declared hopefully.

"Perhaps, they would at that," Philippe agreed. And the royal twins returned to the settee and put their heads together to figure out what might be done.


	3. Barracks

+O+

"Barracks" (3)

Elsewhere, the younger d'Artagnan and Jacques entered Siroc's workshop. Their friend had his back to them and was in his usual pose, hunched over something on his worktable. There was no indication he had taken note of their arrival. The twosome was wondering whether they ought to disturb their companion or come back later, when, without any preamble, the young inventor muttered, "Can you sew? I need someone who knows needle-work."

"What?! Just because you know…you automatically assume that I …. Well for your information… I never…" Jacques sputtered defensively.

"I'll take that as a no." Siroc cut her off with an absent-minded sigh. "I'm passable enough with mending, but I realize my present project will clearly require more skill.

"What are you doing?" d'Artagnan asked, peering over the inventors shoulder at the metal armature, fixed with cogs and wheels. Beside it was a box, overflowing with strips of parchment and cloth.

"It's going to be a music box for the boys," Siroc told them. The boys, of course, referred to King Louis and Prince Philippe, though the companions preferred to be somewhat vague when discussing their relationship with the royal pair.

"I'm making it in the shape of a barrel organ," the inventor explained. "Did you know the word 'organ' originates from the Latin word i "_organum?_" /i The earliest type was used in circus games of ancient Rome," Siroc digressed with a far-away look in his eyes, and then returned to the particulars of his specific project. "Regular rotary motion of a handle makes this cylinder revolve. The pegs work these hammers, which strike the chimes. The pipes act as resonating chambers, enhancing the sound. I plan to cover the frame with papier-mâché, and then paint it with egg-based lacquer. This armature on top will be a clockwork monkey playing the cymbals, but I need someone to stitch the body fur together," the inventor explained.

Ramón, not yet fully recovered from his ordeal in Mazarin's dark citadel, had been resting on a cot in the corner of Siroc's workroom. Hearing his friends' voices the poet decided to chime in. "I say, dress the monkey in Persian robes. Give the creature some foreign flair. It's poetic… like something you'd find in an opera or a masquerade," he called over cheerily.

"Funny you should say that Ramon. That's the name of the song the chimes will play, 'Masquerade.' I've had the king's music instructor set the bells for me. It's not very complicated, but it's a rather nice little melody.

"All right," d'Artagnan said with a profound sigh.

"All right what?" the inventor wondered aloud, stirring the large bucket of paste with a rod.

"I'll sew the head, hands, feet, and robes for your toy," the legend's son agreed reluctantly.

"You'll what?!" Jacques snorted in surprise, and then tried to stifle the urge to giggle.

D'Artagnan frowned at her and rolled his eyes, "Go ahead. Laugh it up! I'll have you know that Lady Constance Ciel d'Artagnan was never one to do anything by halves. My mother told me: 'A swordsman ought to know how to darn socks worn threadbare in service to the king, mend the rips in a blouse, cape or uniform sacrificed to the enemy's blade, and replace buttons lost in the heat of the moment.' With my father gone so much of the time is it so very strange that I learned needlework nearly as well as she?"

i "_Si,_" /i the Spaniard snickered from his position on the cot. i "_Mi Madre /i _ had people to do that sort of thing for her. I would have thought yours would have as well. I mean, isn't your father a Comte?"

"So is my Uncle Athos. You saw him yourself, behind the fire pit grilling steaks for the people of Berry la Feré. Such humble work does not detract from one's nobility; it makes it all the more profound!" young d'Artagnan defended in a manner Ramón could not dispute.

The Comte de la Feré was known for his generosity, dignity and valor. That he chose to serve his people was in no way common or menial, but praiseworthy in a way that spoke to the poet's soul. "The last shall be first and the first shall be last," the Spaniard quoted. "I am humbled my friend. I did not mean to speak ill of your mother's memory. Please, I beg your pardon."

D'Artagnan strode over to the place his friend reclined and regarded him for a heartbeat or two. The poet was still terribly wan from his tortured imprisonment, and he lost his breath easily these days. But the earnestness in his puppy-brown eyes was undimmed. The Gascon smiled encouragingly. "It is all right, Ramón, I know you meant no harm. I forgive you."

"He'll need a tail too," Siroc interjected.

"What?" The others looked confused.

"The monkey. Do you think you can manage a tail?" the single-minded inventor asked.

"Yes, I can make a tail." D'Artagnan smiled.

"One that curls up in the back like…" Siroc waved his hands vaguely behind him in a rough spiral.

"This IS for the boy's, isn't it Siroc…? You seem a bit taken with the concept. Are you sure you don't want it for yourself?" Jacques laughed at his 'ape-like' antics.

"Well, when I was their age I would have been proud to have had a toy like this." i _Or any toy for that matter_, /i the ex-slave added silently. "But no, this one is indeed for them. You have seen them with their pet monkey, haven't you? The one they named after Mazarin. I heard Louis actually had the daring to tell the creature, 'I am king, Giulio. Keep your grubby paws off my crown!' And the Cardinal was sitting right there! For that alone, I figure they earned a special reward," the inventor told them animatedly.

The others agreed.

+O+O+O+

It was well past midnight when Captain Duval made his way through the halls of the barracks. The steady rhythm of his cane always punctuated his irregular gait when he made his nightly rounds, ensuring that his boys were abed and dreaming. The vigilant captain found the auditory reminder of his presence an effective tool. Some he knew found comfort in it, while others were oblivious. And of course, there were those bent on mischief that trembled at the sound.

At present though, the captain padded barefoot through the night. One hand trailed the wall, a less intrusive aid to his uneven steps. The cane, his companion of so many years, rested idle against one shoulder. The stalwart captain smiled to himself, wondering what his boys would think if they knew his heart still raced, like any first-year cadet, at the illicit thrill of executing a midnight raid on the pantry. And while they had only him to evade, Martin Duval knew he risked discovery by any of 150 eternally inquisitive juniors. At any moment, one may slip the bonds of sleep and catch him in the act of securing a crusty baguette, cold roast beef and a wedge of cheese. His stomach rumbled in anticipation.

Suddenly, a shadow detached from the greater dark and slid wraith-like across the flagstone floor. The captain's adrenalin-heightened senses pricked 'Hello?' Duval thought, 'that is NOT one of my boys.' He was certain, though he couldn't quite put his finger on how he knew this was so. He made sure the injured citizens recovering in the garrison had been carefully contained in the west wing so as not to disrupt activities of the garrison. And most of those weren't in any condition to go roaming the halls. The captain slipped into a cross corridor and waited for the intruder, and then, viper-like he struck, blocking the stranger's path with his cane and grabbing the figure by the collar with his free hand.

The cloaked figure yelped, "EEEP!" Furtive eyes cast about helplessly from beneath unruly curls. The child—for child it was—looked torn between the urge to flee or to faint dead away.

"What are you about boy?" Captain Duval asked gruffly, eying the youth who seemed vaguely familiar.

"MMmmmlookinformynuncle." The scrawny boy babbled nervously.

"And just who might your Uncle be?"

"SSSiroc?" The child replied hopefully.

"Siroc?" Duval frowned puzzled. As far as he knew the ex-slave had no family. "Surely you don't expect to wake him at this hour."

"No time else, I can't be missed," The bright-eyed boy explained. "Besides, it's a secret…wouldn't want his captain to catch me."

Duval raised an eyebrow at the boy. "No wouldn't want that would we?"

"Oh no, wouldn't," the boy echoed, shaking his head from side-to-side, eyes wide with innocence.

"He is truly fearsome, this captain. You are very brave to risk his wrath. He might do something terrible to you or your uncle if he caught you here. It's good you are so cautious," Martin agreed ardently.

"Not so much so," The boy admitted. "Scarecrow may be gruff, but he's fair… and he works very hard…I wouldn't want to disturb him this late at night just to ask for permission." The playful sparkle in the boy's eyes revealed that he was not as naive as he pretended and knew exactly to whom he was speaking.

Scarecrow? Martin shuddered. It had been years since he'd been reminded of the mis-adventure that had earned him THAT nickname. Time had mellowed the memory and he had learned not to take himself as seriously as he had when he was a cadet. The stalwart captain smiled. "What is your name lad?"

"Epée. Like the sword," the boy said with a curt bow.

"Well, young blade, let's see if we can rouse that rascal uncle of yours from his dreams."

"I wouldn't think of curtailing your midnight snack sir. But I'll accompany you if you'd rather I not wander the halls, unescorted." The boy licked his lips wolfishly and grinned.

"How did you…?!" Duval wondered.

"Adults do not usually go barefoot, unless they're trying to get away with something." The boy pointed out. "Am I wrong?" Epée asked.

"No," the captain admitted. The lad was observant—he would give him that. Martin patted the boy's shoulder amiably. Epée winced at the unexpected contact. That brief reaction went a long way toward convincing Duval that boy was indeed the nephew of his scarred cadet. He would not try to lay a hand on this child again.


	4. Unexpected Visitor

"Unexpected Visitor" (4)

Siroc was startled awake to the sound of rustling in the hall before the knock even came. He'd already shrugged into his dressing gown and grabbed his dagger, never expecting to find the captain and the young prince outside his door sometime after midnight.

The inventor never had difficulty seeing in low light situations; still, he rubbed his eyes half-imagining the visitors were little more than fragments of dream.

"Is this your Epée I've found lost in the hall?" the captain asked.

"What?" Siroc asked, sleep-dazed.

"Uncle Siroc," Philippe said in a way that implied chagrin, but in fact, informed the inventor of the alibi he'd given to explain his presence.

Siroc nodded. It was an eloquent and useful gesture, which might be an answer to Duval's question, or acknowledgement that he understood the boy's inference. The gesture could also be explained as an attempt to clear the sleep from his head.

"I'm sorry he disturbed you Sir. I will see him safely back to where he belongs in time to make roll call this morning. He won't interfere with my duties," Siroc promised.

Duval sighed. Normally, he was a stickler for maintaining proper military discipline, but his instinct told him that the boy wouldn't have risked coming unless something was the matter. "Take your time, Siroc. I'm sure we can manage if you're a bit late. Feel free to enlist le Pont and d'Artagnan if you need help – go easy on Ramón, he still needs rest. Just keep me in the loop if there's anything I need to know, will you?"

"Of course." Siroc smiled. He was unspeakably grateful that, even after learning of his painful past, his captain trusted him implicitly.

"Then I'm off to bed," Duval announced, and then turned to the boy. "You, stay out of trouble."

"You too." Epée grinned playfully at the captain. He suspected that if the elder man knew his true identity, their exchange would never have been so casual…or as entertaining.

As the Captain turned and made his way back to his room, he heard Siroc ask the boy if he was hungry. He didn't hear the boy's reply…but he thought unlikely the waif could eat anything more. Martin smiled to himself, recalling the speed at which the young intruder had already polished off two apple pies and a cheese quiche.

+O+O+O+

"You said Lew could call you uncle. I hope that means I can too," Philippe asked shyly, once they were alone."

"What-ever you like, my prince." the inventor offered the boy a mock bow and smiled. "So… what brings you out this late, and what did you do to make Duval so accommodating?" the inventor asked, warming up some tea on the small brazier in his room.

The prince looked about for a place to sit without disturbing any of the copious stacks of notes, sketches and half-finished projects jumbled about the inventor's living space. Within moments, he made himself a comfortable nest of cushions and blankets, perched on the windowsill and gazed out the glazed pane into the torch-lit courtyard. "I miss Emris," the boy sighed. "Lew said I should just have him recalled to the capital, but I didn't think that would work."

"I'm sure he'd come, especially if he knew the request was from you." The perceptive musketeer had no difficulty recognizing the true issue. "But you're worried how the elder d'Artagnan will react, yes?"

"They don't get on; everyone knows that. What we don't know is 'why?' We thought Junior might shed some light on the subject. Then, maybe you could help us think of a way to fix it."

The inventor raised an eyebrow at the mention of 'Junior.' Addressing his friend d'Artagnan in that fashion would not be wise. "Choose nicknames with care…my prince," Siroc cautioned. "He is D'artagnan or Dart… not Junior, unless you intend to put him in a particularly foul mood."

It was sound advice. Still, if the boy slipped, the inventor noted he would have to use it as an example why d'Artagnan might want to think twice before referring to Captain Duval as 'Scarecrow' behind his back. Come to think of it Emris had been trying to forestall further discussion about d'Artagnan the Elder and the cause of their falling-out when he told them about young Martin's ill-fated attempt to pad his posterior prior to a particularly grueling riding lesson when he was a cadet. Emris had succeeded in derailing the topic too. The legend's son had been quite taken by the image of our stalwart captain with a rather undignified case of hay-fever. It was shear luck he hasn't said anything about it in the captain's hearing.

"Were you at the Abbé when Dart first introduced me to Emris?" Siroc asked Philippe. "I don't remember seeing you there, just his daughter Kate."

The young prince nodded. "I was there, but strangers frightened me then. I hid behind some robes in the vestry and didn't come out till you left again."

When Siroc had first come to the garrison, he spent days at a time in his nest amongst bales of hay in the loft for much the same reason. If it hadn't been for Ramon, he'd likely be hiding still. "My youth was a lot like yours," the blond musketeer reflected. "Even after my situation changed for the better, I was afraid to enjoy it. First, I couldn't accept it was real. Then, I was terrified it WAS real, because that meant it could be snatched away again."

Epée nodded mutely.

That was all the encouragement Siroc needed to continue. "It looks to me like you're at the place where you regret you didn't make the most of your freedom when you first had the chance. Deep inside, you are afraid Emris does not want you anymore. You kept your distance and didn't tell him how grateful you were for all he's done, because you believed you didn't deserve his regard in the first place and were too afraid he'd realize it too." 

"That's it…That is IT, exactly!" the haunted prince exclaimed, astonished that anyone could understand him so completely.

Siroc nodded. "I felt the same way, not long ago, and only just learned how foolish I was being. My friends accept me for who I am, regardless of my past. I did not need to fear loosing them. They promised to stand by me and they have. Emris would do anything for you—even if it means reconciling with de Batz." The inventor smiled. "And it's not just Emris. Dart, Ramón, Jacques, and I will always stand by you as well. I am sure they will agree to help you and Lew get the two legends back together again."

"I'm glad." The prince blushed and there were tears glistening in his eyes.


	5. Wake Up Call

"Wake up call" (5)

The first flush of dawn crept into the velvet folds of the sky. Siroc was already busy bustling about his lab as the young prince watched. Water bubbled and hissed, racing through coiled tubing. Evaporating, condensing and dripping through apertures of various sizes, it finally filled the air with an aromatic fragrance, both familiar and enticing.

As directed, Philippe positioned a large bellows, like that used to fan the flames in a blacksmith forge, in front of a system of pipes that wound their way through a hole in the wall of the lab. After a few puffs of the bellows a sleep frazzled Ramón stumbled into the room—drawn by the pleasant aroma. He took the clay tankard Siroc offered with a non-committal grunt and settled down to enjoy his morning coffee.

D'Artagnan was the next to arrive, still yawning and fussing with the buttons of his shirt. "A bit early isn't it Siroc, I didn't think we had patrol till—oh, hello Philippe. PHILEPPE! What are you doing here?" the Gascon asked, once the realization made it through his sleep-fogged mind.

Ramón grunted again and mumbled something into his cup.

Jacques joined the companions moments later, fully dressed and ready to start the day…save only for her hair that was still a bit dampish and wrapped in a towel. It was a feminine habit, she knew, but few musketeers were awake, let alone thinking clearly, this early. "Morning," she smiled and offered a tray of pastries to the others.

"Where did those come from?" Siroc wondered aloud.

"Interestingly enough, they're from Captain Duvall." The female musketeer explained, taking an apple tart for herself.

Ramón let out an inquisitive sounding "humph," and appropriated a cheese Danish from the top of the pile.

"So," d'Artagnan addressed their princely interloper, "I assume this means our beloved Captain Scarecrow is aware of your presence?"

Philippe nodded in agreement, munching on a strawberry tart. "Uncle Siroc promised to get me back where I belong and the generous captain agreed to let you help. If you want to of course."

"Surely," Jacques agreed with a smile. "I suspect there is more to it than that, isn't there?"

The young prince's eyes sparkled with mischief as he explained his self-appointed challenge to reunite the two legendary musketeers, perhaps all four. D'Artagnan wondered if Berry could stand to be without its Count for a few weeks. Porthos ought to return from his honeymoon cruise in time to join the party.

Finally, draining his cup and licking the last crumbs from his fingers Ramón said, "I'm in."

"Are you sure?" Jacques asked, worry in her eyes. "You've been through a lot—you're not recovered yet. The Medic said not to do too much too fast."

"I may not be up for gallivanting across France, but I think I can make it a couple of blocks to the Palace Royale and back without fainting… Of course, I'll ride double if you want to." The Spaniard winked at Jacqueline roguishly.

Jacqueline sighed… He was worse than d'Artagnan. Was this what she'd have to put up with now that he knew her secret?

+O+O+O+

The royal city was just beginning to wake when the young musketeers rode from the garrison. It was not uncommon for such a group to be accompanied by at least one lackey or servant to tend the needs of his betters. Louis had taken advantage of this disguise to slip unnoticed from the capital before the Fronde; his brother used it now. Paris still bore scars from the recent rebellion and Philippe's heart wept for each burnt-out building that marred the tree-lined boulevard. The royal city was a glorious exhibition of architectural achievement; it was a showplace of the best and brightest French ingenuity could craft, the pride of kings, and an exemplar of what Louis referred to as his i _gloire. /i _That the people—his people—would attack their city—his city—with reckless and wanton disregard, brought tears to Philippe's eyes. He was grateful that much of the debris used to construct barricades in the street had been carted away before the court had returned from Rueil.

Philippe led the others unerringly to the north wing of the palace. "You are already privy to our greatest secrets. I don't think Lew will mind if I show you this one too," the prince declared, triggering a door concealed in a shadowed recess of the marble façade. Weeks ago the rascals, Etienne d'Ruse and Anton d'Porthos, used the near forgotten entrance to secretly visit the royal chambers. Since then, the royal pair made it their business to memorize the twisted network of tunnels honeycombing the walls of the Palace Royal. The knowledge had already proven invaluable. Whichever twin donned the princely mantle for the day, could escape the constant scrutiny that accompanied kingship and slip unnoticed about the palace.

But when the party arrived at the upper levels and emerged from behind the portrait of Louis XIII, they found an unexpected spectacle in the royal bedchamber beyond. The bed curtains had been flung wide and the young king sat huddled in the midst of the bed, tears streaking his face. Vainly, he clutched the torn bedclothes about this thin body, his skinny legs showing through rips in the worn fabric. Seeing his brother and the others, Louis dissolved into fits of sobbing. Epée ran to him in a heartbeat. "Lew, what happened?!" the prince exclaimed as his royal brother flung his arms wildly around his waist.

Jacques attempted to close the heavy bed curtains to give the brothers a bit of privacy but obtained only limited success, as many of the rings had been torn from the heavy fabric. The four musketeers crowded around the bed, each freeing the swords in their sheaths, in case danger should materialize from the shadows.

i "_Ce n'est pas grave." /i _ it's nothing the young king whimpered softly inside the tent-like enclosure.

"_ i Ne faites pas le malin! /i don't be stupid _What ever happened is not NOTHING!"Philippe was insistent.

Louis sniffled and attempted to pull himself together. The words came haltingly at first, and then poured out in an uncontrollable flood. It seemed that some unsubstantial gossip roused the people once more to violence. The Cardinal left Paris—that much was true—but rumor had it that the king had been taken with him against his will. The Parisians, encouraged by a cabal of various members of parliament and lesser princes, believed such an absence would subject them once more to the uncertain mercy of Condé's army. "The king belongs to the people!" they cried, demanding entry to the palace and forced their way into the royal chamber itself to ensure their king was still where he was meant to be.

Philippe crooned soft encouragement to his distraught twin and stroked his hair until he fell once more into a fitful sleep. "I grew up knowing that I was never safe. At any time my jailors could enter my cell and do what ever they pleased with me. For my brother, it was different; he felt safe here, and now he does not—more is the pity," the haunted prince whispered. The young musketeers did not know whether the comment had been meant for them or merely a thought given its voice. Siroc leaned between the heavy curtains of the bed and squeezed the younger boy's arm encouragingly—no words were necessary.

"Another Fronde is brewing, I think. Perhaps worse than the first," d'Artagnan confided, darkly. "Such things can not be allowed to happen."

+O+

Some time later the queen slipped into the chamber. Young d'Artagnan, Leponte and the inventor stood like sentinels surrounding the bed, while the dark-eyed Spaniard stood vigilant by the door. After all the uproar, Anne was relieved to find her sons so well guarded. "They sleep, Your Majesty." Ramón whispered quietly, more than a little surprised at his own audacity to speak to the queen without first being spoken to.

She nodded to the other musketeers, her gaze lingering just a moment longer on young d'Artagnan, before she glanced carefully through the gap caused by the sagging curtains of the bed to see the angelic faces of her sons, and then withdrew for fear of disturbing the boys further. "All is well then," she whispered and made a mental note to call the seamstresses in to have new curtains and bed clothes made. It was unseemly that they had ever been permitted to get this threadbare.

Before leaving, she turned her attention once more to the young Spaniard. Shadows darkened his naturally tan complexion. Fatigue lay like a sodden cloak about his lanky frame. She didn't have words to express how much his presence here meant to her. The noble queen took his gloved hand, her dark eyes sparkled. i "B_ueno,_ _Gracias Señor de la Cruz_." /i she said in flawless Spanish.

Hearing his mother-tongue flowing effortlessly from her lips took his breath away. Ramon's eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. Anne wasn't surprised by his reaction; many forgot that before she was queen of France she had been Infanta Ana Maria Mauricia, daughter Philip III, King of Spain. The queen remembered both the seven-year-old girl from Valladolid that she had been, and the dashing Captain Manuel de la Cruz, who brought her sweets and toys when her governess wasn't looking. It was good to know his kinsman was as vigilant in guarding her sons as Manuel had been to guard her. It seemed so long ago.

Ramon was grateful to be in France among valiant companions and would willingly give his life for them. Still, at times, he felt like an exile, an expatriate, disowned from his family and ultimately a traitor to his country. Those arguments meant nothing standing before his queen, and she was HIS queen. His Spanish pride swelled almost to bursting. He bowed low, almost to the ground, and his mending muscles complained.

She noticed him wince and carefully raised him once more to his feet. Were she younger, she may have coquettishly planted a soft kiss on his cheek; instead, she leaned in and whispered in his ear, "You do your duty too well _Señor. _Go to bed."As he still stood blinking, she turned and swept from the chamber.

She was right. This task had proven more taxing than he anticipated. "My friends," Ramon whispered into the silence that followed the queen's departure, "we have, each one of us, promised Captain Duval that if we came into such knowledge as he ought to possess, that we would loose no time in sharing it with him. I can be of better use to you if I return to the barracks and tell him what has happened here."

"I will go with you," Jacques volunteered.

"You three are where you need to be, with your stout blades guarding our i _kings' /i _ rest." Ramon said. As fatigued as he was, the Spaniard was not beyond a bit of word play; the tone of his voice and his slight nod clearly indicated that he was referring to both kingly twins. That, more than anything, lent a feeling of truth to his assurances that when he told the others, "I will be fine." He meant it.

i "_Non_." /i D'Artagnan shook his head firmly. "We're not going to risk loosing you again. Siroc will go. Jacques and I will stay." His tone brooked no argument. Still, he was surprised when none of the others objected—not even Jacqueline.

+O+O+O+

To say Charles de Batz Castlemore d'Artagnan was irate would have been the understatement of the year. i "_Vivadiou, Sangdieu, Sacré bleau, Mordieu, Capédédiou…" /_i he grumbled between gritted teeth. His vocabulary had not held so many colorful expletives since he'd realized even the low-born son of a Gascon pig farmer could become a legend, if he presented himself as a gentleman. But the captain had well and truly forgotten himself this time. i _"Corbleu, Cadéis, Maudit, Merde, Verdoiux …" /_i He expended every last curse he knew on those miserable dogs that called themselves Frondeurs.

Despite their grotesque masks, he recognized more than a few among the rabble that forced their way into the castle. They'd made it into the king's own boudoir, no less. The palace was understaffed, since so many of the Cardinal's men were unaccounted for… still, Prince le Condé's men, who were supposed to be on guard, did absolutely nothing to stop the intruders!

i "_C'est impossible!"_ /i The legend struck out at a defenseless side table and the carved piece dutifully splintered in a most gratifying fashion. Still, de Batz seethed. His men, roused from their slumber by the commotion, roughly escorted the interlopers from the plaice precinct at point of spear and halberd, but the damage had already been done. i _"Dame!" /i _

Anne watched from the safety of the doorway, unnoticed. She wanted to tell Charles that her sons were all right… that Duval's most trusted guarded them. She wanted to tell him his own son, the dashing d'Artagnan, made a fine elder brother for her boys. She wanted to scold Charles for rampaging about like an unruly stallion, slap his face and tell him to calm dawn, caress the tension from his back and shoulders, run her fingers through his tempestuous curls, be encircled by the strength of his arms, and let the tears flow. Anne wanted it all... But it was the queen who merely sighed, turned away from her captain and wordlessly retired to her own chambers, alone—so very alone.


	6. The Long Day

"The Long day" (6)

Ramon approached Captain Duval on the practice grounds while he was watching the men drill. "Sir, I have a report." The Spaniard offered a tired salute.

"You're supposed to be resting, Private de la Cruz." The captain frowned.

"I will be soon enough, Sir. But, you must know… the palace was compromised last night. An unruly mob made its way to the king's own chamber. He is shaken, but unharmed. D'Artagnan and Jacques stayed with him. Siroc saw me safely back to the barracks… he plans to return as soon as the medic assures him I've taken no harm from a brief ride. Honestly, i _Estoy muy bien_, /i I am fine, just a bit fatigued." The Spaniard explained, his voice slurred only slightly betraying him.

The captain nodded. "See the medic as soon as possible, and don't you dare stir from these barracks till he gives you a clear bill of health. Hear me private? I thank you for the report but won't be risking you or Siroc further at this time. I will be going to the palace myself soon. Have Siroc run the new recruits through their paces. Have him take charge of the afternoon Latin tutorial as well. I won't have the boys slacking while I'm away. "

"Yes sir," the poet nodded…too tired to argue.

Duval sent a sizable number of reinforcements to guard the palace precincts and went to find out what was going on.

O

Elsewhere in the barracks, a fine young musketeer gazed into the looking-glass. He was lean and straight limbed with bright green eyes and shoulder length hair in a dusty blond queue. It was funny; Philip Coreman barely recognized his own reflection sometimes. Even after all these years, he half-expected to see a gangly orphan with a twisted foot peering back at him. The young medic flopped on his cot and idly nuzzled the battered stuffed bear resting on his pillow. Kukalaka had been his first toy—a gift from Julian, his friend and mentor. It was hard to imagine how completely the enigmatic Englishman had changed his life.

Before he, Bobo-Shir, had come to live in the garrison, he had spent his days begging in i _la Cour des miracles_, /i and his nights huddled in a blind alley in the i _Faubourg Saint-marcel— /i _ notably, one of the roughest districts in Paris. The city guards didn't even venture there—where vagrants and convicts had their redoubts. It seemed barely a season had passed since he'd first spotted the olive-skinned stranger…

_ i The man carried himself with the surety of one who had no idea he was loitering on the doorstep of a veritable hive of scum and villainy. Bobo levered himself up on his crutch and hobbled to a place where he could get a better look. Some of the younger beggars already swarmed the man. Finding himself beset by runny-nosed urchins didn't seem to bother the lean foreigner. Oblivious to the danger, he knelt on the cobbles and handed sweets to the young ones who snatched at the offering and quickly slunk away enjoy their treats before older children could steal them away. The last was a small girl who tried to entice him to part with a copper for a handful of half wilted flowers. The lean man put his hand on her shoulder and examined a burn mark on her wrist. He frowned and opened the battered leather valise at his feet. Taking a vial of something from it, he anointed the wound, and bound it with clean linen before sending her on her way. _

"_Julian, you mustn't come here!" a woman called from down the street. Bobo recognized Ruby, but had rarely seen her like this. Her skirt was un-tucked and covered her ankles completely. A tattered shawl hid her laced bodice and ample breasts. Apparently she knew the man, but he wasn't one of her regular customers, else she wouldn't have a thought for her modesty. _

"_Are you well Mademoiselle?" the man, Julian, asked, moving to take her hand. He had a pleasant voice, but his French was stilted—not to mention the fact that if he took Ruby for a proper lady, he clearly hadn't been in Paris long. Distracted as the man was by the raven-haired seductress, Bobo was free to spirit away the man's battered leather case. He was just about to make a dash for the shadows, as fast as his twisted ankle would allow (a fair sight faster than one would suspect), when a thought struck him. Perhaps the case was full of sweets! Bobo, like most of the street children, had never had candy—though he'd managed to find honey and thought, despite the stings, it was the best thing in the world. If candy was better, he couldn't risk one of the older boys stealing the satchel away before he could try some himself._

_Bobo leaned on his crutch and fumbled with the strange latch. The bag fell open with an odd hiss to reveal a wide assortment of tubes, vials and instruments strapped to the insides. At the bottom, amid a soft white cloth, was a strange metallic box, decorated with raised bumps that twinkled like fireflies. Bobo had never met a physician, and even if he had, he wouldn't have recognized anything about the magic contained in this incomparable medic's kit. _

_The indefatigable Ruby was valiantly trying to convince the man of the dangers of traveling the streets alone, but he didn't seem to listen or care. Then, she forcefully turned her attention to Bobo. "You there, what do you think you're doing?!" she cried. "Leave that alone, you misborn whelp. Or I'll have your hide!" She shook her fist at him, and the urchin knew it was no idle threat. _

_Ruby went on with her tirade. "Julian is a saint; you steal from a saint you'll burn for sure!" Bobo had heard about saints, but he'd never thought to see one. He half imagined he could feel the hell-fires singeing his hair already. _

_But Julian, ever magnanimous, saw the fear in his eyes and took pity on him. "Its all right boy, I'm always forgetting that the darned med-kit isn't going to follow me about. It's a wonder I haven't lost it long since. If you carry it for me, and help my with my work—like a good corpsman—I'll give you a shiny new Sixpence." _

"_A whole silver piece? That's more than a quart d'ecu!" Bobo gasped aloud. Some of the other beggars got foreign coins from time-to-time and he was pretty sure of their worth. What he didn't know was what sort of legitimate work he could do that would net that kind of money. One look at his twisted ankle ought to make that clear enough. Some beggars used old rags and mud to make a strong limb seem frail but his infirmity was real enough. He was misborn just as Ruby said. Julian saw the ankle too, and oddly, didn't seem to mind. The medic smiled. "Go put the kit in the run-a-bout yonder, and I'll see if there isn't something I can do about that too." _

'_Runabout' must be the English name for a two-wheeled buggy; for that was what the man pointed at. The swayback mare harnessed to it snorted at him, and Bobo stumbled back. He'd never had cause to be near such a large beast, and he was generally grateful if drivers of various carriages and hackneys didn't try to run him down._

_Julian was beside him in an instant, _frowning at the beast. "_Ganges…Behave yourself!" the Englishman muttered to the horse. "I swear, I'm never going to get used to this." Turning his attention back to the boy, he asked, "Do you have a name?"_

"_Bobo," he said uncertainly, as the medic set him on one of the two seats in the buggy and gently examined his ankle. _

_He tried hard not to wince. One did not show weakness in the streets…and you certainly never let a stranger know when you're in pain._

"_Bobo what?" Julian asked absently, as he rubbed some pleasant smelling cream on the swollen joint. _

_The gentle massage felt so nice that he was reluctant to answer for fear that the man would desist. Finally, he mumbled, "Jus Bobo. I'm a'norphan—like she said, misborn." _

_Well I think you should have a proper name… let me think… you look like a Philip to me. Phillip Corpsman Bashir Bobo, for short that should suit yo,u yes? And as for being misborn…" The medic took his strong hands from the ankle; the swelling was all but gone. His foot hung straight and for the first time there was no ache._

"_You really ARE a saint!" he gasped, wide-eyed._

"_I'm a medic, that's all." Julian smiled. "I can teach you to be a healer too, if you want," he offered, and the rest was history. /i _

A soft knock on the door sent the young medic's thoughts to the four winds. Bobo quickly shoved the stuffed bear beneath his pillow and went to open the door. Ramón stood in the hall looking drained.

The medic pursed his lips, "You haven't been taking it easy like you promised have you?"

"No, I was needed at the palace." The Spaniard sighed. "It was more taxing than I thought. I'm off to bed, but the captain wanted me to check with you first."

"Come in then, no reason to go all the way to the office when your room is just down the hall." The blond motioned for him to enter and the poet obeyed.

Philip Coreman took the warn leather medical kit from its place beside his bed. Inside, were the mysterious implements of Julian's trade. Before he returned to his home far away the exceptional Englishman had carefully schooled the boy in the use of each item. Often, the results were nothing short of magic. It wasn't as good as having Julian by his side, of course, but it served for the time being. The medic had promised to return one day… even if it wasn't until Bobo was as old as he was… Julian would return. Until then, keeping the musketeer ranks healthy and whole was his responsibility.

The young medic took the candle from his bedside and held it near the Spaniard's face. Ramon followed the light with his eyes. Pupil dilation and eye movement were normal, but it was clear that the musketeer was nearly asleep on his feet. He didn't even notice when the young medic held something small to the side of his neck that made a quiet 'psst' sound before he withdrew it. Bobo smiled to himself. Sometimes slight-of-hand was just as useful for a medic using 'tools of magic' as it was for a pickpocket trolling for coins. Still, conventional cures worked as well. "I expect you to drink willow bark tea and rest. I trust you've still got some of the powder I gave you yesterday?"

"Yes Corpsman." Ramon nodded and then smiled. "Do I get a lollypop?"

"I don't know… were you good? Did you listen to what I said last time and rest?" the medic did his best to look grim.

"Awww come on, Bobo, I tried, really." The poet gave the young man his best puppy-dog expression.

"Oh, all right, I've got berry, grape and green-apple, but you'd better rest this time. I mean it." Julian had always given the fruit flavored sweets to his patients. Bobo of course continued the tradition...what better excuse for his mentor to teach him how to make them? Now he could have one whenever he wanted.

"Grape please—" Ramon smiled and nodded, "—thank you." then took his treat back to his room where Siroc already had the tea heating on the brazier.

OoooO

Meanwhile at the palace

Louis frowned at the servants dutifully stripping his bed. "Burn it… Burn it all! Every last scrap of ticking and shred of cloth, the pillows too. Take them out into the courtyard and burn the lot."

The mere thought of those strangers with their filthy, hands crowding around and pawing at him, made his knees week— and a king was never meant to be weak. In four quick strides he crossed the room. He never wanted to enter the threshold to that room again, and he didn't breathe deeply until he reached the study where his brother and his musketeers waited. "It's done," he told them firmly.

Louis regarded his brother for only an instant; none would take them for twins this morning. Without powder to disguise his sun-touched completion and the dark curls of his wig pulled into unruly waves, Philippe hardly seemed princely, let alone regal. The boy looked up from his place at the writing desk and asked, "Is this…destruction really going to make you feel better?"

"Yes!" Louis said, firmly at first, and then wavered. "No…I don't know. But I need to do something, don't I?" he announced, exasperated. Flopping down hard on the settee and childishly tucked his knees against his chest.

"Of course, your majesty, I'm sure my father is doing everything in his power to find those responsible for arranging last night's… demonstration," d'Artagnan explained. The young musketeer had positioned himself by the window and was idly paging through a picture book. "I could go check if there has been any progress."

"I suppose you might, but please don't be long," the young king told him. It was surprising how the musketeers' presence improved his temperament.

"There!" Philippe exclaimed, dusting his neat script to help the ink dry before folding the parchment and sealing it with wax. "I told him that there are matters of intrigue here in court, and we could earnestly use his diverse resources and superior skills in unraveling them."

"Siroc suggested you should just tell my Uncle Emris the truth. That you miss him and would like him to come to the capital," d'Artagnan reminded the prince.

"I-I-I added that in the post script," Philippe said shyly. Clearly, he didn't think that his particular wants would sway his one-time guardian as a definitively as the needs of the state would.

There was no denying how helpful it would be to have the cunning and recourses of the legendary Aramis at their disposal. D'Artagnan didn't even want to think about the upset last night's events would cause in court today.

All the musketeers felt better when the dispatch was safely on its way. That way, the legendary d'Artagnan couldn't forbid them from further 'entangling themselves' with his one-time comrade in arms. Jacques mused wryly that the schism which divided the illustrious four musketeers must be the greatest story i _never_ /i told. The fallout of reuniting them would likely be considerable.

The only good thing about the situation was that when last they heard, Cardinal Mazarin was effectively out of the picture, recovering in the countryside after 'an attack of ague.' Of course, no musketeer was counted among well-wishers to send word hoping for his speedy recovery. In fact those 'in-the-know' saw it as more than a coincidence that his Eminence's 'illness' coincided rather cleanly with certain disruptions that occurred while they were retrieving Ramon from the Dark citadel… They hoped he'd paid sevenfold for the all hurt he had caused.

For the time being, the only remnant of Jules Mazarin was his small namesake. Jacques' eyes were practically riveted to the gilded cage in the corner. "Giulio nips sometimes, but if you're careful," the king cautioned, "let him reach through the bars to take the fruit from you." The monkey inside chattered with excitement and enthusiastically accepted the food offering.

Jacques had never seen the animal up close before, and was awed by the tiny, grasping hands and clownish expressions. "Such a precious little dear," the female musketeer whispered, offering another apple slice to the creature.

The young king smiled. He'd had his guards around him all his life; most of them he saw as little more than flashing blades and bravado. Like the knights of old, his musketeers were the embodiment of the romantic ideal. Boys throughout France dreamed of growing up to be just like them. Louis's eyes were opened to the truth during his trip to Berry. He'd been privileged to see these four as individuals and not just brusque guardians of his wellbeing, they were friends.

He especially liked this young guard with the irregular voice. Like two sides of a coin, Jacques le Pont was at one moment supremely skilled, hard-as-nails and willing to die to protect him; yet, still somehow retained a sweet disposition and an innocence one would expect of one of mother's farm-bred handmaidens. At times, Louis wished that he balanced his own dual nature as effortlessly as Jacques did. But now, he had Philippe to help bear the weight of kingship, and that made all the difference.


	7. Wheels Within Wheels

"Wheels within Wheels" (7)

D'Artagnan faced down his father, something few could do, especially when he was in one of 'his moods.' But truth be told, the young musketeer was just as irate at the situation as his illustrious father was. "How could this happen? You're the captain of the queen's guard… the palace is your jurisdiction. Where were your men? Don't you know who's responsible for this outrage?" the young man demanded.

"Of course I know very well who was responsible, but my hands are tied!" Charles de Batz d'Artagnan barely stopped his pacing long enough to frown at his son. "I'll have my men pick up Bouillon and Turenne. They were leaders in the last revolt, and my informants witnessed them here, in the palace last night. They are surely part of this trouble. They had a hand in this affair and can be brought to justice, but whether they were in the king's chamber last night, I don't know. Unfortunately those I know to have orchestrated this drama are untouchable.

Young d'Artagnan had never seen his father so agitated and fought to control his own temper, rather than risk making things worse. "Don't just round up a few of the less important members of the cabal to be exemplars to the rest. That makes us as bad as Mazarin. Most of these Frondieurs are against Mazarin, not the king or queen. If nobles are behind this affront, then punish them!"

The legend struck a table with his fist. "Don't you see? I can't punish the ones that deserve it! I told you that already. They're too powerful, too well connected. I fear the king may never get the justice he so rightly deserves… I dread to think where the kingdom is headed when nobles who share the blood of our king, his own cousins, have no respect for the crown or the person whom God ordained to wear it. Such things can't be allowed to continue, but one doesn't just go about clapping dukes, princes and the like in chains. The people are still too unsettled. After the last round of uprisings it wouldn't take much to push them over the edge… it would start a civil war."

"Who exactly are we talking about father? If not Bouillon and Turenne, who is ultimately responsible?"

De Batz began pacing again. "As my men were driving the rabble toward the gates, I recognized Henri Duc d Longueville behind the leering ape mask he wore. Armand de Conti, as usual, was disguised as a fox. I wasn't the only one to recognize them either. I sense it's more than coincidence that Condé's troops let them past…why detain their captain's brother and brother-in-law? If I had my way, I'd send the lot to the Bastille… the Prince le Condé too. What they have done sets a dangerous precedent. But I fear the consequences of action more. The rebellion in England proved that kings are just as vulnerable as regular folk to the headsman's ax. We can not have that sort of thing going on here!"

The young musketeer looked thoughtful as he leaned against the table. "Father, I can't believe I'm saying this, but what you just said brings to mind that story you never want Uncle Porthos to tell. You know the one I mean, when he had to hold you down so Uncle Athos could—"

"—lance the boil on my backside… how could I forget?" His father groaned at the memory. "But what does that have to do with this?"

"France has an infection seething beneath the surface. If we don't do something…decisive it will get…messy. What we need to do is bring the situation to a head, and then burst that bubble in a way that would definitively end in victory for the king. The pressure will ease and the country can begin to heal. Yes? What are the resources that stand ready to oppose us?"

The elder D'Artagnan frowned in concentration before speaking, "The Bourbons, mostly. Prince le Condé, his brother Conti and brother-in-law Longueville have power, influence and arms. Turenne is a skilled general and keeps his own guard as well. Beyond that, the princes would have at their disposal whatever mercenaries they can scrape up.

The king's uncle, Gaston d'Orleans, may choose to support other princes. He is not usually one to firmly commit to take sides, but now that Philippe is at court, Gaston is no longer the king's heir. Louis XIII found his brother to be easily intimidated into behaving himself, but now, because of Philippe, the man likely feels threatened. One thing is sure, whichever side of the fence he is on, d'Orleans never tires of causing trouble."

It was common knowledge that during the recent Fronde, the Duke d'Orleans' support had been tentative, at best. The younger d'Artagnan nodded darkly but said nothing.

The young musketeer paced the room as he fought to muster his thoughts. "At least the princes would have to do some serious convincing to find committed allies among the Spanish." The young man pointed out and his father agreed.

"As much as King Philip IV covets the fertile lowlands of France, he has greater cause to hate General Condé for his deprivations against the Spanish people." The seasoned warrior reasoned, "Philip could decide to send money rather than troops or supplies. I expect he would insist the princes prove themselves first, by achieving major victories on their own. At any rate, Condé and the others have enough resources to cause trouble for a few years before finances become an issue."

Dart had the glimmerings of a plan, a wildly risky plan, but a plan none the less. "All those nobles have holdings in the lowlands, south of the Loire, do they not?" He smiled slyly. "If we were to muster our…southern resources… where would that leave us?"

"You mean Berry? Raise the Blade-bound? That is more than risky." Captain de Batz shook his head uncertainly. "It's akin to unleashing a beast in the heartland."

His son shrugged, "Perhaps, but that particular beast knows very well how to strike only the enemy and protect the citizenry that would otherwise be caught in the fray. What's more, they are sure to outclass any warrior the nobles could bring to the field. It is what Richelieu created them for, remember? I'm just suggesting that you bring up the option when you report to the king and queen-mother."

O-o-o-o-O

The meeting took place in the queen's chamber. Anne sat at her desk looking pensive. Louis and Philippe lay sprawled on a bear-skin rug before the fire place. Charles de Batz paced the room like a caged lion. Captain Duval was a fair sight more collected. He sat in the window-seat with his chin resting on one fisted hand, seemingly lost in thought. There was no sign that he recognized the young prince as his visitor of the previous night. The young musketeers, d'Artagnan and le Pont, sat at a card table, still somewhat awed they had been included in such an important secret meeting.

"Charles, stop your stalking so we can get on with the matters that bring us together this evening," the queen said by way of calling the meeting to order. "Louis dear, could you please begin by telling us your view of what happened last night?"

The young king shivered and his brother squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. "We got ready for bed, as usual, and as we were talking, I decided to send Philippe on an errand. I didn't expect him to be back until much before dawn, which left me alone in my rooms. I sleep soundly, only rarely troubled by dreams. So my first indication that anything was amiss was when the door burst open and a mob of scoundrels pushed their way inside. I feigned sleep as best I could, but there must have been at least fifty, and they stank like peasants. Some wore frightful masks. I feared for my life…." Lew's voice cracked and he struggled to maintain his composure. 'A king belongs to the people,' some cried. Others chanted something I couldn't quite understand. They clutched at me and I thought they would pull me from my bed. The curtains ripped, my blanket too. I grabbed for the letter opener on my nightstand and told them to stay back…a few seemed confused by this. I shouted that this was my room and commanded they leave it. I-I-I don't know what happened next…" He stifled a sob. "The guardsmen must have driven them away… the next thing I remember, Philippe was back here and he'd brought my musketeers." Louis sent the two privates an appreciative smile and lapsed into silence once more.

D'Artagnan Senior took up the tale. "I'm not sure how the party got inside. Since many of the Cardinal's Guard are currently unavailable General Condé's men have been acting as palace guard in their absence. I had not realized those on duty out numbered my own men during the third watch last night. That was when the action took place.

"You think Louis la Condé had something to do with this?" the queen asked surprised. Despite his many military victories, Anne didn't much care for the grasping Bourbon Prince. Still, it came as a shock that he would join forces with the same sort of rebels he so recently accused of 'waging war with bedpans and paving stones' during the Fronde.

Charles regarded his queen with a brief smile; she was as direct as ever. He gratefully continued his report. "I know his men allowed the intruders entry to the palace precinct and did nothing to stop them once inside. I have no proof of his personal involvement. I do know that his brother Armand, Prince of Conti and brother-in-law Longueville, were among the disguised rabble-rousers. Frédéric, the Duke of Bouillon, and his brother Henri, Viscount of Turenne were in the palace yester eve as well. They are known troublemakers who have been quick to take advantage of the situation, spreading gossip throughout the salons about their 'rough treatment' at the hands of my men. I'd like to show them what rough treatment really is." This last comment he said in a half voiced grumble.

"May I make a suggestion?" a voice said from the shadowed alcove that was the queen's private chapel. Everyone in the room jumped as Aramis de Ruse suddenly made his presence known.

"What are you doing here?!" the elder, d'Artagnan, demanded of his former comrade. For a few heartbeats it looked as if he were about to draw his sword on the man.

"I was asked," the newcomer said, touching the letter partially exposed in his breast pocket, and glancing at the king and young prince reclining before the fire.

"You are welcome, Sir." Anne silenced her captain with a sideways glance. Still, the legend looked like a wolf with his hackles up, even more so when she offered the retired musketeer a seat. "I remember certain services you rendered my late husband. Any additional intelligence you care to give is appreciated."

Aramis declined the seat and moved to stand beside young Philippe.

"You came," the prince breathed, gazing up at the man.

"Just as quickly as I could." He smiled at the boy. "As it turned out, I was not far when word of the situation reached me."

"How can we know you had no hand in this matter? Your loyalty is not as rigid as it once was," Charles growled.

Emris could feel the chill in the air, though he could not truly blame de Batz for his doubts. "You and I don't always agree about methodology, but I still take my oath seriously. I serve king, country, God and France, just as I did when I wore the blue and gold. My resources are, as ever, at the crown's disposal."

"You said something about a suggestion?" Louis interjected, his voice cracking from the strain.

"I did." Aramis nodded. "The rabble violated your chamber under the pretext that you had been spirited away in the night. I say: Take your leave publicly. Show them your movements are not constrained by their heavy handed whim. Force the court to follow you. Demand the trouble makers meet you on your terms. I assure you, they will be humbly entreating you to return before long."

"You speak truth, my Lord Emris." The young king nodded. "I would really rather not be here in the Palace Royal just now. In fact, I'd just as soon leave Paris altogether…go to my Sire's hunting lodge in Versailles, for instance. It's relaxing in the country; I think I could be happy there."

The queen scoffed, "My dear boy, a cramped cottage in the wilds is no place for a royal court. It would take years of construction and renovation to make that place even moderately tolerable. If you wish to leave the capital temporally, then we will retire to St. Germain-en-Lay."

"I don't care where we go, as long as it's away from Paris." Lew tucked his knees to his chest and hugged them. "I don't feel safe here."

Aramis cleared his throat. "Majesty, that is only the beginning. I propose you publicly declare your majority before God, the people, the princes and the parliament. They will be forced to accord you the honor and respect you deserve."

"I-I-I don't know that I am ready to take up the management of the government all on my own. I won't even be thirteen until September." Louis exchanged glances with his brother, who seemed equally reluctant.

Anne stepped in and rested one hand on Louis' shoulder and one on Philippe's. "Just because you take up your rightful title and glory, does not render you deaf and blind to those with the wisdom to advise you. Even if I am not your regent, I am still the queen and your mother. As Emris so eloquently put it, 'My resources are, as ever, at your disposal.'" She squeezed them gently to reinforce her words. The boys nodded and seemed somewhat reassured.

Young d'Artagnan knew as soon as Aramis made an appearance that his father could no longer be counted on to reveal the plan they had spoken about earlier; in fact, the young musketeer was somewhat surprised that his father had not yet said something terribly insulting and stormed out of the room. Still his face had purpled spectacularly, and he tensed like an angry cat. Likely, the queen's presence was the only force on the planet that could act as a guarantee of his father's continued forbearance and moderately good behavior. Even so, it was surely up to him to reveal the plan.

Dart gathered up his courage and took the floor. "Majesty, while my Uncle Aramis …er… Emris' plan is excellent, it does not deal directly with the actual perpetrators of last night's…event. The surest way to prove the king's integrity and justice is not to grant special dispensation to those of royal blood. Arresting Conte and the others may well trigger a civil war; their forces against those of the crown…But, if we force them into open rebellion and then soundly put it down, the resulting conflict will act as a pressure valve able to cure the general population of their fractiousness and bring them loyally back to the crown.

Jacques smiled at Dart's choice of example. Months ago, Siroc had made a sealed tea kettle with a valve and a whistle in the spout to release the steam with wondrous results.

Captain Duval, on the other hand, recalled that the inventors first few models exploded spectacularly, giving the inventor some nasty burns. D'Artagnan's pronouncement left the captain very ill at ease. "If you recall, France has no standing army. A force consisting of my 150 Musketeers, your father's pikemen and 2 battalions of Swiss infantry are no match for those Captains who have led men in pinched barrels all along our boarders in what is already being called the thirty-years-war. We just don't have the man power! Not to mention that a civil war will be devastating to the economy. _Morbleu!_ Have you lost your senses, boy?"

"Hear him out," Aramis said softly.

Dart felt better to have Aramis's support, even though he knew it would make things more difficult between him and his father later. He carefully continued stating his case, "France does have a standing army, It just does not happen to be standing where it can be spied by just anyone. I'm not sure whether the plan was orientated with Louis XIII and Richelieu or whether it was King Henry and the previous Lord Richelieu who first conceived it. What I do know is that the plan was carried out during the previous reign and is available to meet our current need. Red, Amber, Tan, Rust and Jade armies stand ready. And, last I heard, Violet was gathering scattered forces and will be able to stand alongside the others. Black and Grey will lead them as they were meant to do. All that is required is for the rightful king to call and they will answer, as they are bound. You have at your disposal a near unstoppable military force. What's more, this force will not tax the royal coffers or be a threat to indigenous peoples, property and natural resources. They consider themselves tools, weapons forged, at your disposal. They will simply do what they have been made to do. But when this matter is settled… you must release them. To do otherwise would be both unjust and dangerous."

"Why haven't I heard anything of these forces?" Anne frowned. "Surely my husband or his minister would have said something, left records of some sort."

"Mazarin has some of the records you speak of," Aramis explained carefully. "I'm not surprised he hasn't mentioned what little he knows to you. My people were able to destroy many of the pertinent documents before he came into office." Seeing the frown that creased the queen's pristine features the ex-musketeer added, "Do not judge me harshly, Majesty. This particular weapon must be handled with utmost care or there could be dire results."

"This army you propose is made up of the guard's in Berry?" Philippe asked curiously. "They were a decidedly strange lot… but their skill was unparalleled."

"In Berry and elsewhere," Aramis agreed. "Protector is the key."

"That, at least, doesn't surprise me." Anne nodded. "Despite everything, Leo would only trust something like that to…" the queen left the rest of that thought unvoiced. It was still hard to acknowledge the unlike her royal sons the enigmatic woman was an heir that shared the blood of Louis XIII and his father Henry of Navarre a fact confirmed and quite possibly engineered by Richelieu himself. What Anne said was, "It is good she is with us… She is, isn't she?"

"Most assuredly, else you would have known long before now." Aramis said. And for once, both captains, Duval and de Batz, were in full agreement with the erstwhile musketeer.


	8. Points of Contention

"Points of Contention" (8)

It was hours after dusk when Jacques and d'Artagnan entered the garrison courtyard. "I guess Ramon and Siroc have eaten and are getting ready for bed by now," d'Artagnan mused.

"Not necessarily, look." His companion pointed to the massive edifice that was the barracks of the musketeers. Any who knew what to look for would have easily recognized the blond inventor backlit in the window seat of the common room. He was nestled against the window with his sketchbook propped up on his knees.

"I'll bet he's been there most of the day," d'Artagnan said, and then got a mischievous look in his eye and grinned.

"I've seen that look before. What are you planning?" Jacques demanded. Whenever d'Artagnan grinned for no apparent reason she knew it usually meant trouble.

The legend's son didn't answer, which only served to worry his companion further. He turned on his heel and sprinted across the yard. Almost before Jacques knew what he was doing he shimmied up one of the columns decorating the buildings façade and gained access to one of the second floor balconies.

"No, Dart… that's not nice!" Jacques called after him, but seeing that he wasn't about to stop this latest tomfoolery, she determined to beat him to the punch, so to speak. The agile musketeer-ess raced up the stairs straightway to the common room. She made it to the doorway at the exact second d'Artagnan rapped both fists against the window that Siroc was leaning against. The inventor was so startled that he rolled right off the window seat and landed in a heap on the rug.

"Ooh you!" Siroc sputtered at the laughing d'Artagnan as he tilted open the sash and flopped gracelessly into the very seat his friend had been compelled to vacate.

"Aren't you glad I got you that white lead to sketch with? If you still used ink, you'd have ruined another pad." The dark haired musketeer winked mischievously.

"You should be so glad, else your pay would go toward buying me more ink, vellum and likely a new shirt to replace what you ruined!" Siroc said, arranging various sheets into a neat folio.

"I think it would be more than fair if he paid for a few new sheets anyway. Scaring a body like that… it's conduct unbefitting a musketeer." Jacques frowned, helping the inventor gather the last few pages and then offered her hand to raise him to his feet.

Siroc accepted and brushed himself off. "I take it everything is well at the palace."

"Well enough. The court is moving to the palace at St. Germain within the week," Jacques explained, and then asked, "And Ramón?"

"Resting. Whatever the medic gave him kept him in bed much of the day. And it's a good thing too. He was quite pale after the ride back to the garrison. I was worried for him. Did anything else happen after we left?"

"Uncle Aramis has arrived," d'Artagnan added.

"So soon?" the inventor was surprised. Surely the man couldn't have made it all the way from the abbey to the capital in two days… that was a distance of more than 200 lieu-de-ped.

"I suspect he was already en route when the messenger caught up with him. My father says his network of spies puts Mazarin's to shame." D'Artagnan shrugged.

"What Mazarin does with his 'resources' IS a shame. But we surely put a kink in his network when we upset the citadel. He'll be a while recovering." The Ex-slave smiled broadly. Any victory against the dark order thrilled him to no end. Snatching Ramon from the clutches of the dark order definitely qualified. "It's only natural your uncle and his people would be quick to take advantage Mazarin's distraction. They would be fool hearty not to, and I think even your father would agree that Aramis is no fool."

"My father doesn't accept that Mazarin's the enemy. The nobles, yes—even the king's own cousins—but he'd sooner believe his oldest friend among the conspirators than to place blame on the mighty Mazarin. You'd think he'd be more suspicious after dealing with Richelieu for so many years." D'Artagnan sighed in frustration.

"We did promise the boys we'd try to get the legends to reconcile," Jacques reminded.

"Easier said than done, I'm afraid." d'Artagnan shook his head disconsolately. "Still, we gave our word. And though we've got other things to worry about at present, I'm not giving up just yet."

O-o-o-o-O

Emris de Ruse, ex-musketeer and clandestine chief of the Jesuit order, never slept well in the capital—he hadn't in years. In the quavering candlelight he could be seen tossing restlessly on the thin straw mattress. True, he could have had better accommodations in the palace or in the garrison guest quarters had he wanted them, but no, Emris went to the same seedy inn on the city outskirts whenever he had cause to sojourn in the king's city. His penance, he dared to hope… but no. The priest-that-was moaned quietly, buffeted about by specters of the past. How could he hope for forgiveness when even after all these years he could not forgive himself?

As he dreamed, the years melted away, and memories resurfaced with aching clarity that only regret can bring… _ i Lieutenant Emris de Ruse, known popularly as the musketeer Aramis, leaned his back against the wall, partially sheltered beneath the eves of the shabby inn. Rain fell sheet-like from the night sky. The musketeer pulled his cloak tightly about his shoulders to ward off the chill and waited. Exactly what he was waiting for he didn't know, but an uneasiness that hung in his chest drove him from the warmth of the hearth and the company of his companions inside out into the weather. Athos and Porthos likely thought him more eccentric than usual, but knew enough to give him space when he required it. That understanding was one of the things that made it possible for the recluse scholar to maintain his end of the near-legendary friendship. _

_A horse's whinny and the sound of steel on steel drew Aramis from his revere like nothing else could. He could barely make out the shadowed figures in the yard beyond the livery stables. A flash of lightning revealed three brigands in black, swords drawn… another figure wore the unmistakable blue and silver tunic that marked him a King's Guard and a brother-in-arms. De Ruse barely took the time to loose his blade in its sheath before dashing into the rain. Somewhere halfway across the courtyard his steps faltered, and instead of going to the musketeer's aid, Aramis took refuge in the doorway of the barn. In a flash of lightning, he recognized one of the figures entangled in the fray, a demon spawn from the pit of hell, Cavalier Rochefort, a spy in the musketeer ranks._

_Aramis had often longed for the opportunity to rid the core of the viper in its midst without revealing just how he became privy to the fact that the cavalier was a creature of the Cardinal's and a threat to everything the core stood for. 'Now is my chance,' Emris thought, hands trembling as he primed his pistol and aimed at his enemy through the rain. 'Head or heart?' he wondered, sighting first one, and then the other, as the five combatants wove around one another a wreath of flashing steel it was impossible to tell who was fighting whom. 'Richelieu's creature likely hasn't got a heart… head it is then,' he decided, and was just about to adjust his aim and squeeze the trigger when pain shot behind his eyes. _

"_No, my tool," a voice he knew as well as his own whispered from the interior of the stable. Emris's blood ran cold. With wild-eyed amazement, the musketeer realized he was caught, body and mind, in the grip of an inexplicable force rendering him incapable of moving so much as a hair's breathe. _

"_You despise my Chosen, don't you Emris? I can feel the emotion bleeding off you, my acolyte." Richelieu smiled thinly and almost laughed at the panic clearly visible in the musketeer's dark eyes. "After all this time, you have not mastered your jealousy that Rocheford was my creature and held the place you coveted at my side. Sad, really…you ran from your destiny before I could explain that I had plans for you as well. No matter. Though you sought to escape, you'll find that you remain under my control." Richelieu brushed the wet hair out of the musketeer's face. Emris longed to flinch away from that hated touch, but the master's power would not relent._

"_It seems My Chosen has been somewhat tainted by his time among your fellow musketeers. He's even begun entertaining notions of honor and brotherhood. He even sought to circumvent my command. That can not be allowed. It is time he returned to my side. You have killed for me before; you will do so again…Now, FIRE!" _

_The force of the command and the dark power behind it sent Emris' mind reeling. The sound of his shot was drowned out by the rumble of thunder. The three dark figures fled into the night as they'd been commanded to do, leaving Rochefort and the musketeer lunging toward each other, blades flailing. Dark blood marred the back of the blue and silver tunic and the figure stumbled. _

_Lightning flashed, vividly illuminating both surprised faces. "Charles? No!" Aramis' mind quailed. The wounded man stumbled forward, impaling himself solidly on Rocheford's blade. A blood curdling scream split the night. D'Artagnan's arm lost strength as life drained from him. His blade descended swiftly, catching the cavalier with a glancing blow across the face. _

"_One less meddler to deal with," the Cardinal sneered. "Conduct, unbefitting a musketeer, and murdering one of your own gets you dismissed from the core, does it not? Surely you can not object that the one you hate takes the blame. I will say nothing of what has transpired and you certainly cannot. My power has you now. I still require a spy among the king's ranks…you, my rebellious acolyte, are now it." Richelieu laughed and left the stable._

"_What's going on here!" Athos' strong voice called from the door of the inn. _

"_Don't you know the king passed a law against dueling?" Porthos added, charging toward the two shadowed figures._

_As soon as he was once more in control of himself, Emris ran from the stable to join his companions. "D'Artagnan! He's dead!" his voice cracked, rain and tears mingled in his dark eyes._

_The other's astonished replies were lost, drowned out by the clatter of hoof beats against the cobbles as Rocheford's black warhorse lurched out of the darkness. The wounded cavalier pulled himself into the saddle, dragging d'Artagnan's body across the saddle bow like a sack of flour. In an instant, he masterfully wheeled the large beast around and thundered past the three stunned musketeers._

"_Come back here!" Emris screamed frantically, but the dark cavalier disappeared into the rain-drenched night. /i _

It was a much older Emris that woke with a shudder before the first light of dawn. In many ways, he was wiser now than the Lieutenant he had been—in some ways he was not. He and Chosen had come to an understanding that, over the years, had grown into something very much like friendship. The irony of THAT still brought a smile to his face. But how could Charles be expected to forgive the treacherous wound that brought him so near to death? The legendary d'Artagnan refused even to hear, let alone understand, how it was that Aramis had been counted among Richelieu's spies. The fact that he retained some of that formidable network for his own designs was proof enough to the Gascon of his estranged comrade's corruption. Emris and his colleagues were fully devoted to combating the Dark Order that had once enslaved them. Emris knew his informants made great strides to negate the damage the order caused. Their ceaseless work had saved many lives. Still, nothing they did was enough to convince Charles they were no longer a threat.

O-o-o-o-O

The legendary d'Artagnan sat hunched over before the fire, forehead resting in his palms. "Charles," Anne whispered softly so as not to startle him when she settled down on the settee beside him.

He raised his head just enough to get a glimpse of her from beneath his tussled bangs. "Do not trust him, majesty. Everything he does serves his own best interests, no other," he said. The ache in his husky voice was clear to anyone who knew him as well as she did all these years. There was no need to ask who he was speaking of.

She squeezed his shoulder comfortingly and whispered, "Aramis was your friend, once."

Charles shook his head forlornly. "Everything I thought we shared was a sham. He betrayed us all and I'll not let him do it again," The man said, knowing that his voice lacked conviction. Charles could not even meet her gaze as he said the words. In his mind he cursed. Things had been much easier when half the kingdom separated him from his erstwhile companion.

"What of the Count de la Fere and Baron de Portau…As I hear it, they have not disowned their companion for his past mistakes. Were you more wronged than they? Who knew him longer?" the queen asked questions she well knew the answers to. Still her musical voice was soothing to his pounding head.

"I…They…He…You can't understand. We were brothers. We had a code, and he broke it." The captain shook his head.

"I seem to recall a time when your commitment to duty was something less than absolute." Anne smiled chidingly…their time together, though brief had been sweet and she cherished him for it still.

He overstepped his bounds as champion, it was true. He risked the king's wrath to become her friend and confident. She had found Charles to be an understanding companion when neither affairs of state nor thoughts of her happiness could inspire the king to act as a husband ought. Later, Charles came to her for support…when Lady Constance's devastating illness became too much to bear. Together they crossed another line becoming somewhat more than propriety would permit. Though he did not know it, her captain unwittingly fathered a nation.

"I was young and naïve," d'Artagnan bit back, somewhat harsher than he anticipated. The pain in her dark eyes filed him with guilt.


	9. The Net

"The Net" (9)

On a clear day you could see the haze of Paris from Saint-Germain-en-Laye. The quaint town rested in a loop of the Seine and was nestled amid the ancient Yvelines forest. The area was said to have found popularity during the time of Charlemagne. Since then, it served as a royal residence, hunting preserve and playground for countless kings and princes. Louis the XIV and his brother Philippe had been born within the confines of Château Vieux and Louis XIII had died there.

It was no surprise that the queen-mother chose the place as a suitable refuge when turbulent times again drove the royal family from the capital. Despite the discreet park-like gardens, fine arched windows, decorative façades, stone cartouches and moldings, the royal residence was first and foremost a castle. High walls, heavy doors and drawbridges were just the thing to lend strength to a badly shaken young king.

The royal family, with their most trusted retainers, guards and servants traveled amid all the pomp and pageantry they could muster. The royal court went with them. There was no way the nobles or parliament, could complain that they had fled in secret. They left publicly, en masse, and settled in Saint-Germain-en-Laye like a besieging army. The town swelled to an unprecedented size as courtiers, lesser nobility, councilors and functionaries occupied other grand residences in the surrounding area.

O-o-o-o-O

Holed up on a small anti-chamber, Louis carefully dipped a crusty baguette slathered in brie into a crock of thick onion soup. His brother drank the broth from the bowl first, and then ate the onions bread and cheese after. Louis preferred to savor every last bite. "This is delicious." The young king smiled to his twin.

The prince nodded. "It is good. When I was captive, soup was oily water with a few carrot skins if I was lucky…Emris taught me how to make this kind at the abbey. I'm glad you like it. I had to slice the onions very thin and then fry them with butter. Next, I put them in a pot with Pease broth. After they were well sodden, I put in a crust of bread and let it boil a very little. I would have put capers in too, but I couldn't find any in the kitchen. Last, I put a drop of vinegar in just before serving."

"I imagine they'll have a routine worked out for us soon, and then there will be no more time to sneak off to the kitchens." Louis sighed. It was frustrating to have to rely on servants to do what you would much rather be doing for yourself.

The door swung open slowly and Captain de Batz stuck his head into the hide-away the young royals had chosen for their clandestine mid-day snack. He sniffed the air speculatively and entered the room a bit more. "Is that onion soup I smell?" he asked carefully.

"There is more on the hearth there if you would like, Captain," Philippe offered.

"And bread and cheese," Louis added in the same breath.

In private both boys had let their guard down… both were free of the mantle of kingship and princely shadow. Louis's voice naturally matched his brother's in both timbre and intonation, and neither had thought to alter it for the captain's benefit. The twins exchanged glances self-consciously. They had not let the legend in on their secret and wondered how he would react to the knowledge that most weeks the boys bore the weight of the crown in equal parts.

The senior d'Artagnan had not noticed the slip and was wolfishly devouring the remains. He hastily mumbled his thanks around a mouthful of bread. "This is delicious… I haven't tasted anything like it in years." He licked his lips.

"That's probably because it has been years since he and Emris rode together as Musketeers," Louis whispered. Philippe silently agreed and wondered how the man's digestion would suffer if he were to know that the recipe had come from his one-time companion. The two legends had pointedly avoided or ignored each other ever since that day in mother's chambers. The young king despaired of ever seeing the two reconcile. He sighed.

"Did you say something my liege?" the queen's champion asked, brushing the crumbs from his tunic.

"Um… Did you discover whether my Uncle Gaston played a part in that business in the capital?" Louis asked, remembering to use his 'royal' voice this time.

"I do not think so, my king. Not that he would not take part in such a thing, but I do not believe the conspirators let him in on their plans. He was not in the capital at the time and has only just returned from his home in Orléans. Sire, he appears to have been quite surprised to find the court gone from Paris, and was still rather flustered when my men showed him to the residence we set aside for his use."

"If he was excluded by the conspirators…Perhaps we should let him in on our plans for le Condé," Philippe advised his royal brother quietly. And the uncanny bond the twins shared flared to life, bringing the details with it.

Louis nodded, understanding immediately, and he carefully expounded for the ever faithful captain. "My uncle does hate being left out. He is doubtlessly still reeling from the sting of it," the young king declared, pacing the room in excitement. "I could invite him to a private audience and tell him that my cousin, the prince, and his cabal are soon to pay for their audacity… without giving him too many of the details, of course. His tongue does tend to slip." Louis smiled and the gleam in his eyes reminded de Batz of a young hawk. The king eagerly continued his diatribe, "We'd have him right where we want him. The knowledge would be two-edged. My uncle would know that I would not share such information with one I did not trust…that trust compels him to be faithful in return. It is a veiled threat also, though he would never suspect me of such forethought. The action I casually propose makes clear that not even princes of the blood are safe. Should anyone threaten the _ i Gloire /i _ of the Sun King, even indirectly, they are bound to get burned."

Charles d'Artagnan caught his breath. He'd never seen the boy so resolute, so determined to action. When Emris first suggested the king declare his majority, it turned his stomach. The captain had watched for years as tutors, ministers, nobles and the like manipulated the immature king. Charles knew Emris was a master manipulator. To him, it was clear the ex-musketeer believed this scheme would permit him to control Louis just as Richelieu had his father. Now, just as then, Charles felt helpless to do anything about it.

Perhaps he ought to reevaluate the situation. Whatever happened when Louis was alone with those rebellious nobles had left him profoundly changed. If Aramis or any other attempted to pull his strings again, de Batz suspected that the king would pull back hard! Maybe there was still hope for the throne that Charles had served in despair all these years.

Almost as an afterthought Louis added, "Still, dearest uncle will likely be scheming again before the year is out. I may still get to sack Anjou… the people there were very rude when I was there, and the things they said about mother… don't even bare repeating."

Prince Philippe sent his royal brother a warning glance. "Cool your temper brother. A wise king knows how to balance justice with moderation. Vengeance must give way to duty."

"Ah the wisdom of our good Cardinal." D'Artagnan smiled. "I sense the young prince has been hard at his lessons since joining the court."

Philippe almost choked on his soup, and then the words were out before he could stop them. "Mazarin has never been my tutor. Still, wisdom is wisdom regardless of the source. Emris taught me that and many things."

De Batz didn't know what to say to that. He stood gaping for several seconds and then mumbled something about "duties" and hastily fled the room.

Louie shook his head and sighed. "You school me to hold my tongue and you loose yours? What ever am I to do with you, brother of mine?!"

O-o-o-o-O

Jacques watched the Spanish poet as he lay, eyes closed in thought rather than in sleep. She knew him well enough to recognize his 'composing pose' when she saw it: Hands folded behind his head and his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His color had returned and his thin lips twisted in a slight smile. Jacques' heart swelled. The journey to Saint-Germain left him looking so fragile that she had been afraid even to sit on the edge of her companions bunk. But today he seemed much recovered. "Oh Ramon, I wish you had been in court today!"

"The medic says it won't be much longer. I must admit my eagerness to return to duty… I've nearly run out of material for my rhapsodies," Ramón answered languidly. "So i _mi amiga_, /i catch me up. What have I missed?"

"A great drama has unfolded… let's see if I can do it justice." The musketeer-ess struck a flamboyant pose and Ramon almost laughed at how well she mimicked the dandies of the salon. She cleared her throat and spoke like a great narrator:

i _The cast we see—a lion, a fox and an ape—caught in the same net. _

_Namely, Prince le Conde, Conti and Longueville, who dared affront our king; _

_Before court and nobles, princes three pretended not to know a thing _

_But their guilt clung to them like heavy cologne _

_To see justice done 'tis true for their sins they must atone._

_We of the guard bid our time in silence to watch and wait. _

_The princes believed their noble stars protect those who are great. _

_Little did they know their guilt was clear to all. _

_His majesty alone wished to choreograph his cousins' fall. _

_King and queen, the lordly pair, played their part with skill. _

_Little did the princes know that they had had their fill. _

_Outside the door our shining blades waited to ensnare, _

_The prince Le Cond and his accomplice pair. _

_You're under arrest monsieurs, I pray you do not fight… _

_Captain Duval stands with his men to see you do what is right. _

_The prince did scream, face red with rage, a mistake this must be! _

_Tell the queen, I command, my dear aunt will set me free. _

_But our lofty queen with steely eyes refused… _

"_Why should I my pardon grant to those who saw my son ill-used?" _

_So now, to le donjon Vincennes they shall go. _

_The king will not be mocked, even princes must know! /i _

When Jacques finished her recital she bowed to her companion, sweeping the tiles with the plume of her hat.

The Spaniard applauded enthusiastically.

"You see, I AM a good influence on you. That was a fine wrought lay. When we return to Paris you must accompany me to Rhapsody Night…or even to the salons. I wish I had been there but you make me feel as if I had.


	10. King Me

"King-Me" (10)

Within days of the arrests, Condé's mother, the dowager princess Charlotte de Montmorency, his wife, Claire de Brézé and sister, Anne de Bourbon-Condé, duchess de Longueville, started stirring up civil unrest. The Charismatic Bourbon ladies drew disaffected persons of every kind to rally to their cause—riot and revolt flourished once more. Vigorous attempts for the release of the princes began to be made. The women of the family were now its heroines. The dowager princess demanded from the parliament of Paris a fulfillment of the reformed law of arrest, which forbade imprisonment without trial. The Duchess of Longueville entered into negotiations with Spain, and the young Princess of Condé, having gathered an army around her, entered Bordeaux and gained the support of the parliament of that town. Anti-Mazarin sentiments were still high among the frondieurs, and it was said that the people of Paris—with the parliaments full knowledge and consent—actually burnt him in effigy. In lieu of this open threat, the princely conspirators were transferred to the prison at le' Havre.

A stricken Mazarin received news of this latest turn of events at his residence in the north-country. Maurice Gaspar had never seen the great Cardinal looking so beaten down. His face was sallow and his hand trembled as he stretched it forward to take the missive. The guard could not help but think that wounded beasts were often the most dangerous.

Jules Mazarin glowered as he broke the seal and read the message. The spy network he had built up so meticulously over the years was in shambles. The few reports he did receive were incomplete and disorganized. This one proved no different. It seemed that the dire invasion of his sanctum had somehow lost him nearly two-thirds of his guards… Some had been killed, of course. A few had ended their own life rather than face him in disgrace, while others had fled.

But most unsettling had been the realization that by some Herculean effort there had been those who had managed to defect. The thought chilled him. The dark power that bound his tools should have made any such attempts immediately fatal. But the obelisk had been damaged and there were those who had been quick to take advantage of the fact. Now, even his body servants were in limited supply. He crumpled the note and tossed it in the fire. It had been years since he'd had to personally get his hands dirty in his own affairs but those miserable vermin left him with no choice.

He would have to free Condé himself, and then the only prudent thing to do would be to leave the country until things began to simmer down. The queen would recall him to court… of that he had no doubt. What had she said in her last letter… something about spending some time in the Rhineland? Not exile, no; it would be a tactical withdrawal. If Mazarin could meet with another master of the dark order in Germany, together they could perhaps find a way to mend the obelisk. Then he would repay those faithless fools who dared become turncoats and seek refuge among his enemies.

Finally recalling himself from his thoughts, Mazarin turned his attention once more to Gaspar. "I'm going to need the uniform of a musketeer. Get one for yourself, Bernard and Villefore as well." The tallow-headed guard looked too stunned for words. In a moment of weakness Mazarin actually was tempted to encourage the man and said, "You are the only trustworthy assets I have at the moment." Then more characteristically he added, "You know what will happen if you fail."

Maurice Gaspar shivered uncontrollably at the thought as he hurried to obey his master.

O-o-o-o-O

Weeks after they were first taken, Louis Condé sat with his brother, Armand de Conti, and brother-in-law, Henri Duc d' Longueville, around a sumptuous table, breaking their fast. Outside, rain beat against the window glazing and the wind moaned but inside it was warm and dry. The walls were paneled and there was a fine writing desk in the corner. If you refused to acknowledge the bars on the widows and guards at the door you could almost believe the nobles were taking their ease in one of the finer inns in Normandy, rather than prisoners of i _la maison d'arrêt_ /i in le' Havre.

Though a prisoner, the king's cousin was still treated with deference by the guards. For this reason Conde and his dining companions were taken by surprise when the door to their suite was suddenly thrown open. The young general paused, spoon raised partway to his mouth, and blinked uncomprehendingly at the specter standing travel warn and dripping in the doorway. If not for the fire in the man's eyes the prince would have been tempted to laugh.

Jules Mazarin was not wearing his characteristic red robe or the black cowl of the order. He wore common britches, boots and a musketeer's tunic that was at least two sizes too small. The shirt sleeves rode far up his wrist.

"I must admit I did not expect to see YOU here. Would you care to join, us your eminence?" Condé smiled drolly.

"The devil take you!" Mazarin declared irascibly, circumstances having stripped the Cardinal of his usual calm. As he entered the room the renegade prince noticed that the guards stationed on each side of the door stood seemingly frozen in place, slack-jawed with vacant staring eyes.

The prince held his kerchief to his nose and sniffed wryly, "The devil take me, you say? Where do you propose we go, O' dark one?"

"I've brought your release, you insolent cur." The Cardinal ground his teeth together. "Though why I should put myself out on your account is beyond me. You are without a doubt the most insufferably thoughtless, prideful, arrogant, shameless…"

"We've only just sat down to eat… would you care to join us?" The Prince cut into the dangerous man's rant.

Mazarin slouched into the seat he was offered and put up his feet. He continued in a somewhat mollified tone. "What DO you think I've been working at these past years, boy…Do you think it is easy cultivating a king? Louis had begun to trust those I'd set in place to manage the country for him! In one ill-conceived night, you undo all my hard work. Now, he plans on declaring himself king in his own right… He's so angry he won't even answer my letters. Did you murder your father before he could teach you when to leave things well enough alone? What were you thinking Louis le Condé! You may have the same first name as our young king but YOU are NOT the one wearing the crown! We had a plan."

"You were too slow, old man," the prince scoffed.

The Cardinal's face reddened, unaccustomed to such insolence. "Beware," Mazarin growled. He would have liked to send a shaft of dark power lancing into the haughty prince, but in his current state, with the obelisk damaged as it was, holding the guards stupefied at the door took nearly all his power. The prince's insolence proved that he knew, or at least suspected, the Cardinal's dilemma. Mazarin fingered the stiletto-sharp dagger that hung at his belt. Perhaps he did not have full use of his arcane powers at present, but that would not prevent him from inscribing a smile on the noble's neck that went from ear to ear. Still, one did not dispose of mediums so easily. And this boy's family had served the order for generations.

"Allow me to fill your cup, your eminence," Armand Conti broke in, trying to distract the man from the attentions of his bellicose elder brother—and perhaps ingratiate himself with the dangerous Cardinal in the process.

Mazarin quaffed the warm liquid and admitted it felt good running down his raw throat. Some of the stiffness from the long wet ride left him. Mazarin mentally cursed those dratted musketeers who had stolen his carriage, forcing him to ride horse-back like a commoner. They were the real source of his ire. True, Condé was guilty of a horrendous miscalculation, but if not for his current vulnerability the damage could have been more easily contained. Mazarin pulled a sealed parchment from the breast of his doublet. "As I said, I bring your pardon, but know you are no longer under my protection. After this, your mistakes are on your own heads. I am leaving the country for a time… I suggest you follow my example." With that he rose to leave.

"What about the guards, Eminence?" Henri Longueville asked dumbly. They were not a bad pair. The one was a good cook and he rather enjoyed playing cards with the other…even if he had lost his grandfathers watch to the man. He wanted no harm to come to them, but perhaps he could retrieve the watch before the master's power released the guard.

"They'll have no true memory of what transpired. You will need witnesses that your release is legitimate. Show them the pardon and they'll simply let you go," the Cardinal said hastily and took his leave. Despite the rain, there was a ship waiting, and he intended to be on it.

O-o-o-o-O

The Musketeers laid aside their grey doublets to don the royal blue tabards marked with the silver fleur-de-lies. They formed a magnificent cavalcade together with the queen's guard and the Swiss regiment. More than 2,000 riders accompanied the king from Sainte-Chapelle where he had received Mass to the courtyard of Parliament.

While the final preparations of the king-making were under way, the young prince slipped away to look in on the four musketeers. "My brother, the king, says to tell you that it is good to have you near, who have done so much to make our big day possible. But not if it risks the health of our friend," the prince told them. He was obviously relieved the medic had agreed to let Private del la Cruz attend. Still, Philip Coreman stood nearby and sent Ramón a stern glare whenever the Spaniard's enthusiasm threatened to get out of bounds. Captain Duval had insisted that Siroc, Jacques and d'Artagnan stand by to lend aid in case he overextended himself.

Even former frondieurs could not help but admire the grandeur of the young king. Though he was only five feet five inches tall, many people marveled at how handsome, well built and robust he was. The transformation began when those cads invaded the sanctity of his royal boudoir culminated with the arrest of the vile perpetrators. Gone were the vestiges of meekness and vacillation, when September 7, 1651, Louis XIV came into his own.

The queen was already present on the royal platform, set up in the courtyard, to witness Louis's grand entry. Prince Philippe was by her side before any thought to look for him. The crowd seethed and crested like a living ocean before it finally parted to admit the young king. With grace and ease, Louis dismounted his spirited Arabian stallion and addressed the assembled crowd and the parliament. His eyes flashed like an avenging angel and his voice was strong. "Gentlemen," the king announced, "I have come to my parliament to tell you that in accordance with the law of my state, I am going to take upon myself the management of my government. And I hope that the goodness of God will grant that this will be with piety and justice!" The declaration was met with resounding applause, cries of joy, and the striking sound of drums and trumpets.

When the din had quieted, once more, Louis turned to his mother and announced loud and clear, "Madam, I thank you for the care that you have been pleased to take for my education and for the governing of my kingdom. I pray that you will continue giving me your wisdom. I wish to see you, after me, as the Chief of my Counsel." Lastly, he turned to the assembled nobles and made it clear that, as his father and grandfather before him, he would be accepting oaths of fidelity due the rightful king of France.

Everyone present, from the duke d'Anjou to the officers of the crown, took the solemn oath. Prince le Condé, of course, was absent. Even so, Louis, in his generosity, offered his royal cousin a full pardon if he would humble himself before his king and be loyal evermore. Condé refused to do so. The general's acerbic letter said in no uncertain terms that he felt he had been wrongly imprisoned and actually threatened the king saying; "You have forced me to draw my sword against my will, and you will see that I will be the last to return it to the scabbard."

The king was grieved, of course, but he had done his best to make things right with his cousin. There was nothing else to do but continue with the plan they had set; it was time to summon the blade-bound. 

O-o-o-o-O

The royal twins stood together on the crest of a small hill and surveyed the valley and the incredible throng assembled below. The young king had never truly been part of a war-host before, and the enormity of it all dazzled him. From this distance he could see each unit delineated by color: Amber, Tan, Rust, Jade, Red, Violet, and Grey and Black to preside over the rest. Was it wrong to utilize these living weapons forged by Richelieu's uncanny art? Louis didn't know… which was why they decided it would be Philippe who addressed them as king this day. The oft tortured prince understood these people in a way Louis never could; it was fitting that he be the one to direct them.

"Nervous?" Louis asked his brother.

"No more than you were facing the Parliament." Philippe smiled.

Louis nodded and squeezed his brother's shoulder encouragingly and they walked arm in arm to the dais. To one side stood Captain de Batz and the queen; to the opposite side stood Emris and the young musketeers. Even in something as formal as this, the two legends could not be compelled to stand together.

Immediately, a hush fell on those assembled and all activity ceased. The statuesque warrior woman known only as Protector, stood before the men and in a clear voice she announced, "Blade-bound, behold your king!" She paired the pronouncement with an expressive sweeping gesture, which did in-fact, include both boys. Her slight smile was playful and encouraging. It seemed to say 'you'll do just fine.'

The twins could feel all eyes on them, riveted, imploring…fearful. Louis broke off and went to stand with his mother and d'Artagnan Sr., and Philippe made his way onto the platform alone.

What do they want of me? The prince swallowed hard. There was no need to shout, as his brother had before the parliament. Siroc had been conducting tests on how sound traveled and resonated. The inventor assured him that the shape of the glade would magnify his words and broadcast them easily even to those in the farthest ranks. Philippe cleared his throat experimentally and began:

"I come before you not as a noble or a king, but a brother. Civil war threatens to tear apart this proud land. I have called you because I know you were trained and held in reserve for just this eventuality. I am young, it is true, but I am not deluded enough to believe that there are no casualties in war. I understand many of you feel you have no choice but to fulfill the duty which you have been trained for… to accomplish and perhaps give your lives because you are sworn to obey the oaths that make you blade-bound." Philippe swallowed hard before continuing.

"I have been told that many of you have managed to carve out lives for yourselves to live as men…rather than the slaves you were created to be." He could feel unease ripple across the crowd. It was a monumental pressure knowing that these men had been trained in such a way that a single word from him could cause them to fall on their swords. Not a few of the soldiers appeared as if they expected him to do just that.

Philippe shook his head. "I am proud that you have exceeded what your master expected of you and will not condemn you for it. I realize that many of you even have families now, and I stand in awe of your accomplishment. I need you, France needs you, but I do not want you to serve me as slaves. The oaths you have sworn were to 'Louis the Just' who wore this crown before me, and to his minister Richelieu. I can not and should not expect you to serve and die at the behest of those who are already in the grave. If you fight, do so because you choose to do so. Who would know as well as you that peace is a precarious thing… you have already prevailed over overwhelming odds to live free. I will not take from you what you have gained. Rather I ask that you fight to preserve the peace and prevent the nobles, my cousins, from harming what we have worked so hard to build. Who will stand with me?" he asked. He expected a cheer or something, similar to that which followed his brother's speech before the parliament.

But this was no wild mob. Like a wave, breaking on the shore, the soldiers knelt. Placing a fist over their heart, in a salute similar to the centurions in ancient Rome, they pledged him their fealty as only they knew how. i _"Semper fidelis, Semper paratus, animis opibusque parati nulli secundus._"_ /_i (Always ready, Always faithful, prepared in minds and resources… second to none.)

It was good that Emris had seen him schooled in Latin. Louis likely would not have known how to formulate an appropriate response, else he would have said thoughtlessly i 'nemo me impune lacessit'_. /i _(No one provokes me with impunity). But Philippe knew better; he returned their salute smoothly and said i _"Non mihi, non tibi, sed nobis_ _dixi" /i _(Not for you, not for me, but for us I have spoken).

The End…for now


End file.
